


do not leave me in this abyss where i cannot find you

by Wordsintothevoid



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Les Amis are a family, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Courfeyrac, POV Enjolras, Pining, Pining Enjolras, aka the ghost au that no one but me asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27170984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsintothevoid/pseuds/Wordsintothevoid
Summary: Grantaire is hopelessly in love with his best friend who is completely oblivious. A car accident changes everything.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 18
Kudos: 27





	1. the accident

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Day 1 Prompt: Last, for the Miserable Month, started by @thepiecesofcait on Tumblr.
> 
> This fic is heavily inspired by the song Ghosting by Mother Mother and the fics you don't need tricks, you don't need tricks by myrmidryad and What the Hell is a Poltergeist by Pyx. You should definitely check out all of the above. Title comes from the quote in Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.
> 
> I was planning a quick, fluffy getting-together fic and it spiraled into THIS. My family has COVID-19 so I'm quarantined for a LONG time. Updates will hopefully be frequent because I have nothing to do all day.
> 
> I know this is tagged as MCD but I think I can promise a happy ending(ish), so stay tuned!

Grantaire can barely keep his eyes open. It’s been a terribly long day, keeping all Les Amis out of trouble and when Enj starts ranting at an art museum about colonialism and removing works out of context and taking them from their proper cultural history, R has to drag him away before they call security.

In the parking lot, Enjolras is furious. “Things don’t change until the people demand that they do. Those paintings were stolen by people who thought that aesthetics were more important than morality.”

It’s a wet, drizzly day, the skies a thick gray overhead. Grantaire hasn’t slept more than four hours a night in a week because “justice never sleeps!”, he desperately needs coffee, and yeah, maybe when Enj texted him to meet him an art museum, Grantaire had thought that Enj really cared about his art, wanted Grantaire to share that with him.  Yeah, maybe Grantaire thought it was a date.

Grantaire stares at Enj, blond hair a messy swirl around his face, brilliant in his red raincoat, still sporting a bruise across one cheekbone from a run-in with a security guard a week ago. He suddenly hates him. Gorgeous, brilliant Enjolras who can only see the perfect society in his mind but can’t be bothered to see his best friend desperately in love with him.

“What are you looking at?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Nothing. Just get in the car.”

They ride in silence, Enjolras on his phone undoubtedly texting the group chat to organize the next meeting. Grantaire clenches his hands on the steering wheel, angry and lonely and so, so tired.

He flips on his turn signal, edges forward into the turn lane to head south. He sneaks a quick glance at Enj, a sudden burst of sunlight turning his skin golden while he texts, mouth twisted in concentration.

_ Apollo,  _ he thinks suddenly, heart warm. It doesn’t matter if Enjolras never loves him back. It’s a gift just to be with him every day, getting to witness him being beautiful and amazing.

Then there’s a deafening crash. Shattering glass, yelling. The car rocks, tilts, flips. A cacophony of sound and then… nothing.

_ Enj _ , he thinks with a crack of panic and then the pain swallows him whole.

Everything  _ hurts _ . His head pounds and there’s a slick, coppery taste in his mouth. Enjolras opens his eyes slowly, shifting in his seat.

He can tell his left wrist is broken, the deep spreading ache making him nauseous. There’s a stinging gash on his forehead that’s dripping blood into his eyes and his chest is on fire.  _ Broken ribs _ , Joly’s voice whispers. The world swirls, drips, smears with pain.

And then it hits him like lightening. This isn’t his car. He wasn’t driving. Panic building in his chest, he turns and sees Grantaire slack against his seatbelt. Not moving. They’re hanging upside down, asphalt a few inches away where the windshield has shattered.

Enjolras has been punched, kicked, and almost stabbed. He’s stared down police, lawyers, professors, and his own parents. Scary, yes, but not terrifying. The world is a brutal place but Enjolras had never cared what happened to him as long as he could make the path easier for those who will follow.

_ But this _ ? Grantaire, slumped in his seat, blood coating his cheek, broken glass dusting his sweater? This is  _ terror. _

“Grantaire,” Enjolras tries, his voice almost inaudible. “R, wake up!”

He doesn’t stir and Enjolras is still pinned in place by his  _ fucking seatbelt _ , can’t reach across far enough to touch Grantaire, can’t get enough air to be loud enough. “R! Wake up! Don’t do this! Please, please wake up. Don’t leave me here.”

Enjolras scrapes enough air together to start yelling for help, the words weak and rasping against his broken ribs. He hears sirens and then voices.

Someone crouches by his window, a dark uniform on. “Sir, is there anyone else in the car with you? How badly are you hurt?  
“My friend,” he croaks, and there’s pure panic scraping at his throat, making his hands shake. “Please, you have to help my friend.”

“I need a team over here!” the woman shouts as she turns away.

And then there’s more people. Someone reaches across Grantaire through the broken driver’s window and cuts R’s seatbelt, catching him before he can fall the foot and a half to the ground.

The paramedics pull Grantaire from the wreckage and Enjolras is trying to unbuckle himself but his damn wrist is broken and  _ they’re taking R away, he has to stay with R, what if R dies and Enjolras isn’t there? _

“Sir, I need you to stay still! We’ll get you out.”

God, his chest hurts. “Grantaire,” he begs, the only word he still knows.

There’s hands reaching across him, cutting the seatbelt, and Enjolras doesn’t wait for their help. He’s already crawling through the broken glass until he’s free of the car. He scans the scene—people on the sidewalks watching with concern, the other totaled car, paramedics, a flash of dark curls on a gurney being loaded into an ambulance—and he’s trying to sprint toward R but every breath is a knife in his chest.

“Sir, please sit so I can treat your injuries.”

“My ribs,” he grits out. “But you don’t understand. I can wait. I have to be with my friend.”

“Sir, please sit. Your friend is in good hands. We’ll do all we can for him.”

But Enjolras just shakes his head, trying to dislodge her hand. Grantaire  _ needs  _ him. There’s no way Enjolras is going to abandon him.

The woman sighs. “Fine, we’ll take you in the ambulance and follow them to the hospital.”

In the ambulance, Enjolras fights for every breath that drags through his lungs. The EMT pulls out an alcohol pad to start an IV and he can’t even summon the energy to be afraid of the needle. He reminds himself that every second takes him closer to Grantaire.

They get to the hospital and they want to put Enjolras in a bed, give him painkillers, set his broken bones, but Enjolras keeps shaking his head even though his chest and wrist are on fire. 

“I need to see my friend,” he tells them over and over again. Everything is spinning out of control, world slipping from his fingertips, and he can still feel the car rolling over and over and the  _ crash _ . Nothing will be okay unless he can see Grantaire and make sure he’s safe.

One nurse, a tall woman with kind eyes, pulls him aside while he’s standing in the hallway holding his wrist and trying not to breathe too deeply. “Look, Enjolras, right?”

He nods.  
“I know you’re probably terrified right now. You’ve been through a terrible experience and you’re allowed to be freaked out. But your friend is in surgery right now and I know the doctors that work our operating rooms. They will do their damndest to make sure you get to see him again. But I doubt he’d want you to be in pain while you’re waiting. I went to school to help people. Will you let me help you?”

He nods again slowly. She gets him a room and fills his IV with some drug that cuts him off from the terrible throbbing of his injuries, tells him someone will be with him soon to set his broken bones. He lies in bed, head feeling like it will float away from his body, the drug dulling his full-blown panic into a vague sense of terror for Grantaire.

Somehow, his phone is still in his pocket, intact and he pulls it out, opens the group chat with all the Amis. Typing with one hand, on painkillers, means that his message is barely coherent through the typos but he sends it anyway: what happened, where they are, and to please come if they can.

The response is almost immediate. Courfeyrac says he’ll fake sick at work and he’ll be there in 20 minutes. Cosette wants to know if she can bring food. Bossuet says he’ll take care of the insurance details with the police. Some people can’t get there immediately but the general consensus is that everyone will be at the hospital by five. 

Joly mentions this is a way better meeting for tonight than the one Enjolras had planned and Enjolras actually cracks a smile, sitting in a  _ fucking hospital room _ , waiting for them to give him news of Grantraire. 

So, he waits as the minutes tick by. He allows them to give him an X-ray and it confirms he has two broken ribs. They put his wrist in a cast and he’s still struggling to breathe so they up his pain meds, promising those will help him relax, and by then Courfeyrac has gotten there and Enjolras is swimming in a haze of anxiety and panic.

He’s sitting up in bed, scratching at the cast because his wrist hurts and it must be the wretched gray binding and where’s Grantaire, how could he lose Grantaire, Grantaire is so  _ important _ and Enjolras can’t find him and he can’t breathe and he has to  _ get out of here right now _ .

Courfeyrac is there and he’s trying to guide Enjolras back into the bed and Enjolras begs where’s Grantaire because surely Courfeyrac will know because they’re friends and he’ll get Enjolras out of here and everything will stop and Enjolras will finally be able to breathe and his chest will stop hurting and this panic will settle and stop making the world swirl around him because he’s so dizzy and he just wants Grantaire because Grantaire will make everything hold still.

And then there’s more people and they’re so loud and Courfeyrac looks scared and the needle in his arm aches and then there’s nothing and Enjolras just wants Grantaire.

The day has been a goddamn shitshow. Courfeyrac sits in the hallway outside of Enjolras’s room texting the group chat because he’s  _ way _ over his head here and honestly the Amis are basically one organism at this point so any crisis is better handled when they’re together.

Joly and Musichetta and Bousset show up together as always. Chetta is crying and Joly looks like he’s about to puke and Bousset grabs Courfeyrac and holds him tight and doesn’t let go.

Éponine arrives like a force of nature and Courfeyrac has never seen her so upset. Her eyes are snapping and Courfeyrac remembers that Grantaire was her friend long before they met any of the other Amis.

If, God forbid, the group fractures, Courfeyrac knows Éponine would stand by Grantaire and he would take Combeferre and Enjolras with no hesitation. It never fails to make him nervous. The idea of their little family splitting up is a nightmare.

When Cosette shows up, she’s holding Marius’ hand as well as an honest-to-God tub of chicken noodle soup and she tries to pass it off as nothing (“I made it yesterday and Marius and I were just going to have it for dinner”), but he knows she really cares.

And then Feuilly and Bahorel and Jehan and  _ finally _ , Combeferre are here and Ferre slides a hand into his. Courfeyrac finally tells everyone what happened, piecing the story together from whatever he could get out of Enjolras and the hospital staff.

“Enjolras and Grantaire were coming back from a museum. I guess Enj got Grantaire to drive him and they were on that one scary intersection, on the Rue de l’Église—”

“They got hit from the side, while Grantaire was turning left. The car flipped and rolled and landed upside down.”

Jehan flinches. Éponine’s jaw is set.

“Enj had two broken ribs and a broken wrist but he was conscious at the scene. They sewed up a gash he had and gave him some painkillers and they expect him to recover.”

“What about R?” Joly asks, in a voice barely more than a whisper.

Courfeyrac swallows hard, commands his voice not to break. “Grantaire had a head injury. He was unconscious at the scene and he’s in surgery right now. No one would tell me anything but I gather that—” Damn it, he’s crying now and Combeferre squeezes his cold fingers. “It’s touch and go. He might wake up or he might not. We won’t know until he’s out of surgery.”

“Holy fuck,” Cosette whispers, the first time Courfeyrac’s ever heard her swear, and he couldn’t agree more.

“Where’s Enj?” Combeferre asks. “You said he’s okay and he’s conscious. Why isn’t he here?”

Courfeyrac swallows. “Not exactly okay. I got here while they were setting his breaks and I’ve-I’ve never seen him like that. He barely even recognized me. He was trying to find Grantaire, calling for him, pushing away all the nurses. He was panicking and I was t-trying to call him down, trying to help him realize where he was…”

He trails off, searching the faces around him for forgiveness that he couldn’t fix this, couldn’t help his friend.

“What happened?” Ferre asks so gently that Courfeyrac’s crying again.

“They had to sedate him. He’s asleep right now and the nurse told me that sometimes people can respond to the painkillers like that. It makes them disoriented, panicky, even violent. They think it can be an allergic reaction.”

Courfeyrac tries to laugh but the air won’t come out right. It should be funny, really. Enjolras the shining leader who never even catches a cold is apparently allergic to painkillers, but Courfeyrac can’t stop remembering the terror in Enj’s eyes. Grantaire calls him “Apollo” when he thinks Enjolras isn’t listening and this Enjolras was a god unleashed, confused and distraught.

Will Enjolras survive if Grantaire dies? WIll any of them?

He chokes on a sob and Combeferre pulls him close and the next thing he knows, everyone’s on the floor in a group hug. Coufeyrac’s gripping Joly’s hand and Bahorel’s arm is around his shoulder, with Jehan’s breath ticking his neck and he pulls them all close, trying to squeeze everyone together.

This is what they do in a crisis. They’re a family.

There’s something wrong, he can feel it. His body aches everywhere, his chest feeling like he’s been stabbed, and the smell of the blanket is all wrong. But this goes deeper than that. Something’s lost, he’s lost something and he’s got to find it. This is  _ important _ and Enjolras struggles to open his eyes.

He’s in a hospital room with the red light of the sunset streaming through his window. He sits up slowly, wincing and biting back his gasps. 

His eyes fall on Courfeyrac, slumped in a recliner, asleep. And then it  _ slams _ into him and he’s clutching his chest, trying not to breathe too deeply because it  _ hurts  _ but he can’t help it.

Grantaire.

Courfeyrac bolts up, woken by Enjolras. He takes in Enjolras sitting up and Enjolras’s sure he must look wild, deranged.

“R,” he grits out. “How is R?”

Courfeyrac looks devastated. “We don’t know yet. He’s out of surgery and he’s in recovery right now but we just have to wait and see.”

There’s a painfully long pause.

“How are you feeling?” Courf tries gently.

Enjolras just shakes his head and lies back down. After another long moment, Courfeyrac leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Enjolras tells himself he’s not crying.

It takes days and the Les Amis take shifts at the hospital, staying with Enjolras and Grantaire in the ICU.

Enjolras hasn’t spoken since the day of the accident. His doctors ask him questions and he shakes his head or nods, holds up fingers to rate his pain. Not even Combeferre can get him to talk, but Cosette managed to make him smile faintly when she gave him some of her homemade soup. They give him a pad of paper if he wants to communicate but he hasn’t used it yet.

Grantaire still hasn’t woken up and the doctors start whispering words like “brain-dead” when they think Courfeyrac can’t hear. No one can bear to mention Grantaire around Enjolras, but he never asks.

After five days, the doctors discharge Enjolras and tell him to be careful about his pain meds to avoid addiction and to avoid strenuous activities. Enjolras just nods sharply, eyes blank, and his silence is killing Courfeyrac.

He drives Enjolras to his apartment and Enjolras is so  _ still _ . It’s unnerving. Enjolras is always tapping on something, writing, flicking through pages, typing another essay on justice, waving his hands as he gives a speech. He never just sits in a car, mouth pressed in a thin line.

When they arrive, Courfeyrac gathers all of his courage. “So it’s my day to visit Grantaire tomorrow. If you’d like to come—”

Enjolras just opens his door and gets out. Courfeyrac watches him let himself into his apartment and he never looks back.

Courfeyrac would almost be offended if he wasn’t so miserable.

Three days after that, the doctors pull everyone together in a private room at the hospital. Enjolras isn’t there; he didn’t reply to anyone’s texts.

The doctor, Dr. Bernard, launches right into what must be a practiced speech. “Grantaire is effectively brain-dead. We see no sign of brain activity and right now, it’s only his life support that’s keeping him alive.”

The Amis are utterly silent. No one even breathes.

“This is unorthodox, but he has no next-of-kin and as many of you are listed as his emergency contacts, I leave it with you to make the decision to take him off life support. You can wait, of course, but it’s extremely unlikely, if not impossible, that he’ll wake up.”

Éponine sinks into a chair, hands curled into fists, eyes wild. Jehan rakes his hands through his long hair, tries to disguise a sob as a cough. Courfeyrac feels like he’s a thirty second delay, still stuck on “Grantaire is effectively brain-dead.”

“There’s no rush to make a decision and I can provide you with hospital resources if you’d like. But I imagine you’d prefer your privacy right now.” Dr. Bernard offers, and with that, she’s gone.

No one knows what to say. Courfeyrac grabs Combeferre’s hand and clings to him. There’s nothing to be said.

They hold the funeral on a Saturday. An hour before it starts, Courfeyrac goes over to Enjolras’s. No one’s heard from him in days. He’s been screening their calls, ignoring their texts, and Courfeyrac goes over to offer him a ride but also just in case… just in case he’s done something stupid.

Courfeyrac knocks with no response so he lets himself in with his own key. He finds Enjolras sitting on his bed, dressed in his suit, staring at the wall. He’s holding a wad of fabric and as he gets closer, Courfeyrac recognizes it as one of Grantaire's hoodies. There’s bright green paint staining one of the sleeves.

“Enj,” he says, as gently as he can.

Enjolras turns to look at him and Courfeyrac takes a step back at his expression. It’s the face of a man being tortured on the rack, desolation carving its path into the hollowness of his cheeks.

Courfeyrac feels a stab of panic. What can he say to grief this deep?

“Are-are you coming?”

Enjolras nods slowly. He stands and it looks like it costs him something precious to leave the hoodie laying on the bed. He walks out the door and Courfeyrac trails in his wake, hands shaking.

The service is simple. Every single one of the Amis speaks, about Grantaire, his wit, his care for others, his art.

Except Enjolras. Grantaire always liked to joke that Enjolras was like a living statue and it’s never been more true. Enjolras is still utterly blank, body still, looking like a Greek statue of tragedy.

They all sprinkle handfuls of earth into the open grave. Éponine is the one to offer a prayer, asking that this place will be kept safe and sacred until the Last Judgement, and Courfeyrac notices her wiping tears away when they’ve all said “Amen.”

There’s something fundamentally wrong about burying one of them while the others live. Courfeyrac somehow always imagined them all dying together for the cause they all believe in and they wouldn’t ever have to lose each other. But that’s just it, isn’t it? Grantaire didn’t believe in the cause. It was only ever Enjolras.

Eventually it’s time to leave. Everyone hugs each other, tears wiped away surreptitiously, and the plan is to meet up at the Musain tonight for drinks in Grantaire’s honor. 

To Courfeyrac’s surprise, Enjolras allows himself to be led away from the grave and Courfeyrac drives him back to his apartment. Again they sit in silence.

“Are you coming tonight?” Courfeyrac tries.

Enjolras’s expression doesn’t change.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras’s eyes are unseeing and Courfeyrac reaches out hesitantly, shakes his shoulder. “Enj?”

Enjolras blinks and then shakes his head minutely and gets out of the car. Courfeyrac waits until he’s inside and then he drops his head to the steering wheel and sobs.


	2. haunted apartments and steamy showers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a chapter update after one day??? can anyone spell "adhd hyperfixation"? no beta or proofreading, we die like fangirls who need a different hobby.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy.

Enjolras has never known stillness like this. All his life has been movement, always his causes, too passionate to sit still, veins full of coffee and sleep deprivation, voice hoarse from yelling at rallies.

But this? This is a icy drug in his veins, freezing him into this frigid nothingness. He lies in bed, shivering under his quilts. He hasn’t showered in days, hasn’t shaved in longer.

How is this possible? No words left, no plans for great things. Just empty hands, curled under a blanket, drifting.

He clutches Grantaire’s hoodie to his chest. It smells just faintly of R and Enjolras is vividly reminded how he came to possess it.

It was a wet winter night and Enjolras had forgotten a coat, too excited to show the group his latest freelance journalism article about the labor protests in Paris. In the aftermath of the meeting, Grantaire had approached him as he packed away his laptop and papers.

“Interesting work, Apollo.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I thought I told you to stop calling me that.”

Grantaire grinned. “Why would I stop when it fits you so well? Epitome of youth and beauty, source of healing, god of the Sun?”

Enjolras’s cheeks had heated and he wasn’t sure why. Grantaire did this all the time, threw out wild praise, and Enjolras knew it was just to mock him. Grantaire took great pride in his status as the cynic but Enjolras suspected it was more about being a pain in the ass than true belief.

“Very funny, Dionysus. Did you have an actual opinion to share or shall I simply register your disdain and save myself the time?”

“Just for tonight because I love you, I’ll allow myself to be marked down as disdainful without an thesis to support it. Next week, you’ll need a secretary to keep track of my many excellent point that poke holes in your poor arguments.”

Enjolras’s brain stuttered over that “I love you”. Thrown out so casually, Grantaire was surely joking and yet it made Enjolras pause. He regrouped quickly. “I’ll be sure to check the listings on Indeed.”

He slipped his bag over his shoulder and turned to leave but Grantaire stopped him, hand on his arm. Even through his thick sweater, Enjolras could feel the warmth of his hand. He shivered and Grantaire’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s not nearly warm enough for a night like tonight. Don’t you have a coat, wise and mighty leader?”

“I forgot it,” Enjolras shrugged. “But I ride the train to my apartment. It’s not that far.”

Grantaire scoffed. “It’s two blocks to the nearest station and it’s starting to snow. Here, take this.”

He pulled off his oversized green hoodie before Enjolras could protest and handed it to him. 

“But now you’ll be cold,” Enjolras objected. He wasn’t sure why he was arguing but it somehow seemed like too much to ask that the man hand over his own coat just because of Enjolras’s forgetfulness.

Now, it’s Grantaire who shrugs. “I’ll be fine,” he said with a smirk “Consider it my latest act of worship. I only ask that you remember me in my time of need, O benevolent divinity.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and slipped the hoodie on, readjusting his bag. It’s comically big on him, hanging to his thighs, sleeves well past his wrists. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Grantaire said, voice slightly strange.

He turned to go.

“Wait,” Enjolras said. “When should I give it back to you?”

Grantaire waved a hand dismissively with a grin. “Keep it. I’ve got more. Good night, Enjolras.”

“Good night.”

Enjolras had never had a warmer walk home.

He brings the hoodie to his nose, lost in the memory. R smells like pine and the sharp scent of paint. He wonders briefly what’s like to hug Grantaire, if the scent would be even stronger, and then he’s curling in on himself in agony, pulling his knees to his chest, trying to force oxygen into his rebellious lungs.

How is this even possible? How is the world still going on? The people are still going about their daily business, going to work and throwing parties and having fun, and Enjolras wants to scream until his throat bleeds that no one is allowed to be happy ever again.

It’s not _fair_.

On his bedside table, his phone buzzes. It’s a text from Combeferre. _Do you want to get lunch with me and Courf? We can go to the Mexican place you like._

He can’t do it, can’t go sit with them over burritos that will taste like dust in his mouth. Can’t watch Courf and Ferre hold hands and smile at each other softly.

He sets his phone to silent and flips it face down.

His ribs ache fiercely and he knows the pain meds are in his medicine cabinet in the kitchen. He can’t take those either. He _knows,_ with a bone-deep certainty, that one pill will turn into a handful. He doesn’t want to be dead, exactly, but the idea of making his brain finally turn off just a while is intoxicating.

Early morning sunlight still peeks through his curtains, thin shafts of light spilling onto his bed. Enjolras used to _love_ mornings, the most productive time of the day. He’d fix his coffee, sit cross legged on the couch, and research, type, revise, read aloud until he had work that would change people’s minds.

Enjolras could have sworn they weren’t friends at all. Not with the way Grantaire teased him relentlessly, embodied the silent bystanders who only jeer at efforts to improve their society. It drove Enjolras _mad_ , forever wondering _then why are you here?_ when R scoffed and debated but never, ever missed a meeting.

And yet, he liked having Grantaire there. He inspired Enjolras to work harder, to reason through every possible objection, compiling even more sources and studies and testimonies, because if he could leave Grantaire speechless, then he could convince anyone. Too often, Enjolras lectured to the group, mobilized them into action, and no one ever questioned him or challenged his ideas. It wasn’t right that he should be unchecked and then, as if by magic, there was Grantaire. So maybe, somehow, Enjolras thought of him as a friend.

Always conscious of R’s eyes on him (and honestly, when did Enjolras start calling him R? It was always, _always_ Grantaire and R was saved for Eponine and Jehan who slung their arms around Grantaire, made him laugh so loudly he’d disrupt meetings. But strapped in a wreck of a car, his own blood heavy on his tongue, Enjolras called him R. He can’t make himself stop.) Enjolras would lecture and try not to think of the cynic with paint stained hands, wearing ragged green hoodies and leggings from his ballet classes who always watched him so carefully.

Enjolras had kept the hoodie, hang it up carefully in his closet. He never wore it again to meetings, not in front of R. But he never even thought of donating it or giving it back.

Grantaire has always felt like the tender place that he couldn’t bear to touch, didn’t even want to look at. Grantaire felt like an unhealed bruise, stained with all the colors he didn’t allow himself to have.

Enjolras sighs, pushing all the air out of his lungs, shifts again to press his face into the pillow. He needs a shower, needs to rejoin the living, and he seizes at the thought. Grantaire will never rejoin the living.

God, it doesn’t _stop._ He keeps stumbling over the fact over and over again like a chair in the dark, a minefield of agony. It doesn’t seem real.

The shower turns on.

Enjolras sits bolt upright, grief forgotten. He lives alone. There’s no possible reason the shower would be running. Fear shoots down his spine.

He grabs his baseball bat that he keeps in his bedroom (Combeferre used to make fun of him for it. “Very scary Enjolras, you’ll hit a home run with an intruder.”) He slips down the hallway, hands clenched around the wood. It makes zero sense for a burglar to sneak in at ten am and start a shower but Enjolras has heard of stranger crimes.

He throws open the bathroom door. Empty. Everything’s untouched. Already, the mirror is starting to fog up with steam from the hot water. After a long pause, Enjolras slips a hand behind the shower curtain to turn off the water, but the handle is stuck.

His tears are close to the surface these days and Enjolras almost sobs in frustration. Of course. On top of everything, he has to deal with _this_ : a shower that won’t turn off and he’ll have to call someone to fix it and it’ll raise his water bill for the month.

His towel falls off the rack, landing in a heap on the floor. Enjolras frowns. It was hung securely and there’s no reason for it to just _fall_.

He picks it up and puts it back on the rack. It falls off again. He steps back in defeat. Whatever. Let it stay on the floor.

The faucet turns on and off again and as he turns to face the counter, for the first time, Enjolras sees the writing in the steam

_You stink. Take a shower._

More words appear in the steam. They’re sloppy but Enjolras can still read them. _Hello, Apollo._

It’s a cowardly thing to do but Enjolras backs away slowly and runs back to his bed. He pulls the covers over his head, each deep breath feeling like a knife to his ribs. This can’t be happening. His grief has finally pushed him off the edge. He wanted and wanted and now he’s insane.

His covers are suddenly yanked to the foot of his bed. Enjolras sits up. He’s alone in the room. Nothing else has changed except for the blankets lying in a pile.

“Grantaire?” he asks, the first word he’s spoken in a week. “Is that you?”

The air around him warms noticeably. He can feel it even through his sweater. Oh God.

Enjolras fumbles for his phone. Dials Combeferre’s number. It rings only once.

“Enjolras? Hey, what’s up?”

“I need your help. I think I’m losing my mind.”

Ferre’s voice takes on a new edge. “Stay right there. I’m coming to your place and I’m bringing Courf. Seriously, Enjolras, just give me ten minutes and don’t move.”

He hangs up and Enjolras cradles the phone in shaking hands. This can’t be real. It’s a delusion. He wanted this so much and now it’s happening because he forced his brain to act it out. Grantaire cannot be haunting his apartment.

Nothing else strange happens and after only eight minutes, Enjolras hears Combeferre let himself in with his own key. “Enj?” he calls and there’s a definite note of panic in his voice. Enjolras wonders briefly what exactly Ferre thinks has happened.

“In here,” he says.

Ferre comes in, trailing Courf. Both of them look terrified. “What’s going on, Enj?”

“I think I’m being haunted.”

Courfeyrac looks stricken, clearly struggling for something to say, and Enjolras can tell that Courf thinks he’s lost his mind. “I know this has been a really difficult time for you, Enjolras, and it’s totally normal to be grieving right now, but—”

“Hang on, Courfeyrac.” Combeferre looks thoughtful. “Honestly, Enjolras might be right.”

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows, disbelief written all over his face.

“Tell us what happened, Enj,” Combeferre prompts and so Enjolras tells them all the strange occurrences.

Combeferre looks thoughtful. “I mean, it’s possible. It makes sense that Grantaire would haunt one of us.”

Enjolras frowns, a terrible sense of inadequacy curling up inside his chest. “But why me? Why isn’t Jehan or Eponine having their towels fall off the racks?”

“It’s probably you because Grantaire lo—” Combeferre cuts himself off sharply.

“Because Grantaire what?” Enjolras asks, desperate for answers.

Ferre exchanges one of those _looks_ with Courf that never fails to make Enjolras ache. It's that type of couple telepathy between people who are so intimate that they can exchange whole sentences with the lift of a brow or the twist of a mouth.

“Probably because you’re the leader of the Amis.” Combeferre finishes.

“Do you think I’m losing my mind? I’m afraid I just _conjured_ this or hallucinated everything because I mi—” His throat closes off and Enjolras resigns himself to memorizing the design on his comforter.

Ferre shrugs helplessly, his own grief still etched into his face. “I can’t say. Nothing’s happened while we’ve been here but that doesn’t necessarily prove anything.”

“So what do I do?”

Courfeyrac speaks, his kindness written all over his face. “You could come stay with us if you’d like. It might be better if you weren’t alone right now.”

Enjolras shakes his head automatically. There’s no way he wants to stay with his two best friends who are a couple right now. That’s the whole reason he moved out in the first place. They don’t need Enjolras, stagnant in his own despair, right now. He’d only be a burden, even though they’d pretend otherwise.

“Well, you know that you can stay with any of the other Amis. Any one of them would be happy to take you in.”

Again, he shakes his head. 

He can’t leave. It’s needy and so pathetic, it makes his stomach twist with self-loathing but if there’s even the faintest trace of Grantaire in this apartment, there’s no way Enjolras can leave.

“I’ll stay here.”

Ferre and Courf nod, resigned. They both know once he’s made up his mind about something, there can be no arguing.

“Will you call if you need anything?” Ferre asks, his eyes asking Enjolras to promise.

Enjolras nods.

“It’s good to hear your voice again, Enj.” He pulls Enjolras in for a tight hug. Enjolras clings to him for a little too long, and does the same when Courfeyrac pulls him close.

“Enj, you know I love you, but you _do_ stink.” Courfeyrac wrinkles up his nose in mock disgust.

For the first time in what feels like years, Enjolras smiles.

Then they slip out and Enjolras is left alone. Courf is right. He _does_ need a shower so he sheds his grungy sweater and t-shirt he’s been wearing for far too long. By now, the steam has cleared by now and the mirror is left blank. The towel is still on the floor.

He turns the water as hot as it will go, relaxing under the spray. One of the best things about this apartment has always been the water pressure. He tries to get all the kinks out of his muscles, sore from long days of lying in bed, unable to face the world.

He needs to start running again, he notes, but the thought of leaving his apartment when so much has changed feels insurmountable.

He stands there for far too long, tells himself not to cry.

When he finally shuts off the water, he shakes off his towel and wraps it around himself, legs feeling shaky. He stands in front of the mirror to brush his teeth and here are new words, written in the same sloppy handwriting.

_Sorry I scared you. Was trying to get your attention._

He staggers back, takes a deep breath. Grantaire is officially haunting his apartment. He realizes abruptly he’s thrilled about this.

“Um, Grantaire, if you can hear me, write something else in the mirror.”

Slowly, the words form as if they’re written from _inside_ the mirror. _Do you put product in your hair or does it curl naturally? Always wanted to know._

Enjolras chokes a laugh that’s really more of a sob. Grantaire is back. Almost.

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please leave a comment. Kudos are amazing but comments really inspire me to keep writing! I love to see that other people actually like my writing!!


End file.
